


The Space Between Me to You

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Past and Future [1]
Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: Anal Sex, Car Sex, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, Miscommunication, No Plot/Plotless, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ritsu never expected to have this." After a decade of distance, Onodera struggles to find his way back to where he used to be.





	1. Adoring

Ritsu never expected to have this.

He was never supposed to have any success in this undertaking. His crush has been a thing of the shadows, something cradled too close to his chest to be set free and shared with another, even and especially the object of his affections for the last three years. Saga was supposed to never see him, to graduate and move on with his life and leave Ritsu with the untouched simplicity of a teenager’s unrequited love to tinge his memories to rose and allow him to look back with bittersweet fondness on the youthful fantasies left behind with the turning of the years. But Ritsu is in Saga’s bed, under Saga’s shoulders, radiant with the heat of Saga’s lips on his and Saga’s hands trailing paths of fire everywhere they touch, and he can feel the aching burn of that contact searing an irrevocable scar into him even as he pants and shudders with disbelieving, dizzying arousal.

Saga doesn’t say anything about the color staining Ritsu’s cheeks, or the unstoppable tremors running through the other’s legs, or the obvious arousal that strained at his pants even before Saga’s certain fingers unfastened the front to lay Ritsu bare for the reach of his hand and the press of his fingers. His gaze stays level, as unflinching as it has been since the first day Ritsu blurted out his unprompted confession, and if there is judgment he expresses none of it aloud. He just moves, as graceful in pressing Ritsu over the sheets as he was in kissing the other back against the edge of the bed, and when his fingers urge Ritsu’s thighs open to press against the other’s entrance the whimper of heat in Ritsu’s throat is muffled by the press of Saga urging his tongue into the space of his mouth. Ritsu chokes off a note that goes unheard for the pressure filling his mouth, and for a long span of time he’s too unraveled to manage even the burn of self-consciousness for his thoughts. Saga’s tongue is in his mouth, Saga’s fingers are stroking inside him, and all Ritsu can do is shudder and tremble through brief, helpless waves of arousal in answer to the persuasion Saga is making to his body.

By the time Saga draws back Ritsu has lost all his grasp on the embarrassment that burned his cheeks and tightened his mouth shut when they began. It’s too much to believe, too much to bear; his whole body is radiant with the same heat that has settled itself across his cheeks, until he can’t even find self-consciousness for the friction of Saga’s touch sliding back and out of him. Ritsu has become something else, an outline for the arousal that quivers in his shoulders and spills a moan from his throat as Saga’s fingers slip free to leave an aching loss in their wake. His vision is hazy, blurred out of focus by his own inattention to anything outside the overwhelming heat of his body, until even when Saga rocks back onto his knees and begins to unbutton his shirt Ritsu doesn’t do anything but lie flat on the bed, gazing up at the other with nothing of the restraint he has always tried to keep for himself. He doesn’t duck his head, doesn’t try to hide the slurring heat that seems to have become everything he is, until Saga glances at him and jerks his chin towards the span of the other’s body stretched out across his sheets.

“Take your jacket off,” he says as he unfastens the last row of his own buttons and pushes his shirt open over his chest. “And your shirt, too. I want to be able to see you.” This last is delivered in the same calm monotone with which he’s offered all of his statements today, as if it’s hardly worth noting, or so obvious he’s slightly irritated at the need to give it voice, but Ritsu’s cheeks burn hotter than he thought they could as his forgotten self-awareness surges back into him in a rush. He pushes to sit up against the bed, unsure if he’s guided more by a desire to comply with Saga’s demand or a sudden need to hide some part of what of him is already stripped bare for the other’s gaze, but Saga is already looking aside as he shrugs his shirt off his shoulders, and Ritsu lacks the voice and the will to provide any kind of focused protest. He sits still for a moment, struggling to gather himself to the point of action enough to slip his already-unbuttoned shirt and coat free of his chest, and then Saga tosses his own shirt aside and reaches out for Ritsu’s.

“Here,” he says, and he’s pushing the weight of the fabric off Ritsu’s shoulders before Ritsu can draw a breath. His thumb slides into the collar to make an easy grip of the fabric; when his knuckle drags across Ritsu’s skin Ritsu can feel the heat of it tense down the whole line of his spine, arching his back with fever-burn even as Saga pushes his clothes off him. Ritsu has no chance to resist even if he wanted to; Saga makes quick work of his clothes, stripping them free and tossing them to the floor, and when he turns back in to face Ritsu fully Ritsu’s heart is beating too hard for him to do anything but stare wide-eyed at the other. Saga’s hand presses to his shoulder, his grip as careless as before and just as electrically charged, and Ritsu collapses back to the bed as quickly as Saga leans in to urge him there. Ritsu’s vision hazes, clinging to pointless details: a tousled lock of Saga’s hair, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the muscle flexing over his shoulder; and then Saga’s mouth finds his, Saga’s tongue presses to urge for entrance, and Ritsu shuts his eyes and opens his mouth into surrender.

Saga doesn’t hesitate in taking what he wants. There’s a confidence to his motions, something that Ritsu has watched from the shadows of the library for all the years that his attention has followed the other boy, but he never truly let himself imagine that same focus turned on him, applied to his bare skin and trembling body spread out below Saga’s own. Saga’s hold presses to his shoulder to hold him still against the bed, Saga’s tongue urges heat into Ritsu’s mouth, and when he brings his knee in he’s as self-assured in pushing into the space between Ritsu’s thighs as in urging the other down to the bed. Ritsu’s legs tip open, giving way to Saga’s movement with a readiness that leaves him breathless, and Saga braces a knee between his as he reaches to hook his thumb into the waistband of his own unfastened pants. He’s graceful in sliding free of them, as casually comfortable as in all his actions; it’s Ritsu who can feel his body go taut with the awareness of Saga over him with the full heat of his arousal laid bare for Ritsu’s view. Ritsu’s chest constricts, his throat tightens on the force of the overwhelming adrenaline that hits him, but when Saga draws back from his mouth his thoughts are too dizzy to form to words, much less the shape of a protest he neither feels nor wants to give.

“Here,” Saga says, and presses his hand to the inside of Ritsu’s thigh. “Spread your legs wider.” His touch is startlingly high, urging towards that intimacy his slick fingers persuaded from Ritsu’s body, but Ritsu finds himself giving way instead of tensing, as if the mere touch of Saga’s fingers is enough to strip away any reflexive resistance his body might offer. His legs slide open, making an offer of himself for Saga over him, and Saga leans in without waiting for more than that. His hips press to the inside of Ritsu’s legs, his knee tips wide to catch under Ritsu’s own; for a moment there’s heat brushing against Ritsu’s skin, a radiant burn so keen it steals his breath even before he realizes it’s Saga’s arousal dragging over him. His throat tightens, his exhale sticks to a whimper, but Saga is ducking his head to watch his hips line up over Ritsu’s and Ritsu is left to stare overheated shock at the tumble of Saga’s hair around his head. This can’t really be happening, this is impossible, to have Saga with him and over him and _wanting_ him – and then Saga steadies himself, and his hips tilt forward, and when the head of his cock bumps Ritsu’s entrance Ritsu’s lungs empty themselves into a groan of heat so strong he thinks he must come apart beneath it.

“You have to relax,” Saga says without lifting his head. His cock pushes harder, as if demanding capitulation; Ritsu can feel the force of it sliding across the slick of his entrance, as if Saga’s body is seeking out the surrender of his own. “This won’t work otherwise.”

“Yes,” Ritsu gasps.

Saga’s head comes up, his gaze cuts through the shadow of his hair. The gold of his eyes is dimmed to bronze, burnished-dark by the weight of his hair and the angle of his chin. “You want this, right?” There’s no real judgment on his words; he makes them sound a statement, a question for polite confirmation of something perfectly obvious. “This is what you want to do with me?”

Ritsu’s face burns, flushing hot as fire under Saga’s steady gaze; but Saga is still watching him, giving Ritsu the whole of his attention, and he’s not moving, not pushing forward to give Ritsu the full satisfaction of the other’s heat urging into him. Ritsu presses his lips together, swallowing hard in an attempt to clear his throat of the knot locking his words back into the cage of his chest, and after a moment he achieves speech, if with the words high and breathy as they come past his lips.

“Yes,” he says. His hands are slack at the bed, laying where they fell in the first shocked impossibility of Saga kissing him, of Saga touching him, of Saga wanting him. Ritsu blinks, trying to pull his thoughts into alignment, into a clarity that he can hold himself to, and then he lifts his hands, feeling them tremble in the space between their bodies as he brings them up. There’s too much of Saga to touch, too much bare skin that still seems an impossibility for Ritsu’s hold; it’s enough to brush his fingers to the other’s hair, to ghost his grip against the back of Saga’s neck and over the flex of his shoulders with tentative friction. Saga doesn’t pull away as Ritsu half-expected him to; he just goes on looking, gazing down at Ritsu beneath him as if this is expected, as if Ritsu touching him isn’t the greatest impossibility Ritsu has yet faced this day. Ritsu swallows again, strives for a statement of at least audible if not smooth speech. “I want to...” He shakes his head, gasps a breath. “I love you, senpai.”

Saga doesn’t look away. “So you want me.”

Ritsu ducks his head. “Yes,” he says. “Senpai.”

Saga huffs a breath. It’s not a laugh, exactly – it’s too faint for that – but there’s a tension at the corners of his mouth, something a very little bit like a smile that tries to curve at his lips. “Alright,” he says, and then he ducks his head again, and his hips come forward to slide his cock up and into the give of Ritsu’s body.

Ritsu’s vision hazes for the first moment of Saga thrusting into him. His eyes are open still, as far as he knows, his gaze still fixed at the dark of Saga’s hair, but the whole of his consciousness is tangled into his body, at the grip of his fingers and the quiver of his thighs and the heat, the friction of Saga’s cock entering into him. His lips are parted but his breathing has stalled, his own cock is quivering arousal towards his stomach but he’s not thinking of reaching for his own pleasure; in the first heartbeat all Ritsu can think of is Saga, the straining heat pushing into him to prove the other’s desire, to fix him to the bed beneath the urging of the other’s want. Saga’s hand presses to his thigh, the weight urging Ritsu’s leg wider still, and when his knee tilts open Saga thrusts deeper, sinking farther than the wildest of Ritsu’s imaginings ever took him. Ritsu tightens involuntarily, his body clenching against the intrusion on reflex more than intent, and over him Saga huffs a breath and drops his hand from Ritsu’s thigh to the bed alongside his hip.

“There,” he says, murmuring to himself more than for Ritsu’s hearing, and when he pulls back to thrust forward again Ritsu moans with the force, spilling sound into the quiet of the room with helpless immediacy. He’s hot, he’s burning, his skin and his body and deep inside him, where Saga’s movements are urging friction in against untouched sensitivity, and all he can think of is the impossibility of this, the overwhelming intensity of having everything he has ever let himself dream of eclipsing his reality with such force.

Saga keeps moving. Ritsu can’t find words to ask him to slow, to ease back from the intensity that seems to override his entire existence with every movement of Saga inside him; and he wouldn’t, he thinks dizzily, as Saga’s shoulders flex to tip him in closer and Saga’s hair falls to skim against the line of Ritsu’s shoulder. Ritsu is staring at the ceiling, clinging to the simplicity of that one fixed point against the surge of sensation and emotion rising too fast to restrain in him, but he feels his desire rising in perfect time with it, expanding to encompass everything about the moment as quickly as Saga gives it to him. It’s as if Saga is suggesting new horizons, offering perspectives to a world Ritsu hadn’t thought to exist; and Ritsu craves as quickly as he glimpses, tumbling forward to follow Saga into this as readily as he followed the other’s taste in literature and after-school pursuits. Ritsu’s fingers come into Saga’s hair, sliding to brace himself steady against the other, and when his knees tighten it’s to hold Saga close against him, to keep them pressing as near as they can get.

“Sorry,” Saga says, mumbling the word so low that Ritsu can hardly hear it over the pounding of his heart in his chest. “I know this has to hurt.”

Ritsu blinks, startled as much by the meaning of Saga’s words as by the hearing of them. He shakes his head in immediate rejection but Saga’s not watching him, and after a moment he struggles himself into speech enough to make his response clear. “It’s fine,” he says, because it is true there is something like pain to the pressure in him, the intensity rising to such heights along his spine and flexing in his shoulders. “If it’s you, senpai. I don’t mind.”

Saga pauses for a moment, the rhythm of his motion shifting to stall over Ritsu beneath him; when he shifts again it’s to lean in closer, pressing near enough to weight his forehead against Ritsu’s shoulder as he lowers his weight to the support of his elbow against the bed. His arm comes up to arc around Ritsu’s head; his fingers brush against the fall of the other’s hair against the pillow. He murmurs something, so soft and low that Ritsu is hardly sure he’s heard it at all, but when he says “Ritsu” the shape is too clear for even Ritsu’s uncertainty to mistake. Ritsu blinks up at the ceiling, wondering if he really heard what he thought he did, wondering if there can possibly be so much allowed him on top of everything else he’s already been gifted; and then he lifts his arm to wrap closer around Saga’s shoulders, and shuts his eyes, and lets the heat of impossible happiness in him spill from his lashes to trickle warm across his cheeks. Saga is with him, holding Ritsu steady in his arms and pressed to the give of his sheets and murmuring Ritsu’s name to the shape of his body; and with Saga over and against and inside him, Ritsu finds his voice breaking “ _Senpai_ ” into the shape of pleasure even as his body curves and quivers into heat urged into him by the friction of Saga’s touch. Saga braces Ritsu steady, holding him close as the other comes, as he keeps moving to seek out his own completion, and in the aftershocks of pleasure Ritsu wraps his arms close around Saga’s shoulders, and turns his head in to press his lips to Saga’s hair, and lets his dreams take shape in the weight of his beloved senpai against him.


	2. Present

It is cramped in Takano’s car. Onodera felt the weight of it before, with the distance of the center divider to keep them apart and strained silence to serve as a wall. With anyone else he thinks it would have felt an expanse, as near to infinite space for himself as he could wish for; with Takano he feels every catch of the other’s breathing as if it is coming against the heat of his skin, feels his shoulders hunching and fingers tightening with adrenaline so strong that it twists his stomach with the beginnings of nausea. He can’t relax, can hardly think of anything to offer by way of speech; the best he can manage is tense silence, and then sleep formed more from a desperate need to escape his own self-consciousness than anything else.

It’s different, after. Outside there is the weight of the snow drifting down on them, turning the sky to white and chilling the glass of the windshield until it fogs from the heat of their presence within; but Onodera doesn’t notice the oppressive silence outside any more than he struggles with the humid heat within. It should be uncomfortable, hot enough to prickle sweat under the layers of his winter-warm clothes and stick his breathing to strain in his chest; but Takano is against him, and Onodera can spare no attention for anything else.

They are pressed close together, sharing the space of the passenger seat between them. Takano came over the center divider at some point, following the press of his mouth to Onodera’s lips with the whole weight of his body; and Onodera surrendered, giving way to the other’s presence without any thought of resistance. He should, he would tell himself, on a different day, at a different time; but Takano is with him, his hand bracing to Onodera’s waist and his tongue working gentle heat against Onodera’s mouth, and all Onodera’s words of obligatory protest have given way. It’s Christmas Eve, and Takano’s birthday, and the anticipation of those decade-old daydreams has seized him with a grip far stronger than the hand sliding under his shirt to press to his skin. Onodera’s back arches to Takano’s touch, his lips part for Takano’s tongue, and when Takano’s body fits close against his he just brings his hands up to fit into the dark tangle of the other’s hair and hold Takano down against him.

Onodera doesn’t know what he expects. They are nearly in public, with only the haze of the snow and the heat fogging the windows to hide them; and even with the chair tipped back into a recline there is hardly space for them both together, however closely Takano drapes himself over Onodera beneath him. But Onodera doesn’t protest when Takano’s fingers dip past the waistband of his pants, doesn’t push the other’s hand away or turn away from the heat of Takano’s mouth. He feels dizzy, drunk on the heat of the air and the taste of Takano’s lips on his, and when Takano’s fingers slide down to draw open his fly and seek out the flushed heat of his length Onodera shuts his eyes and lets himself whimper something he can’t quite admit to being encouragement to Takano’s mouth.

They ought to stop. Better to drive back to their apartment building, to take the long elevator ride to their floor and stumble through the front door to the greater comfort that a bed or even a couch might offer; but Onodera feels desperate, as if he might lose Takano to the delay, or perhaps lose himself to it, and he can’t find it in him to give this up even as rationality insists he ought to. He can’t be in love again, can’t still be desperate for a boy he hardly knew ten years ago who is now his sharp-tongued boss; but Takano’s fingers touch him like he remembers, as if they are back in the span of that moonlit bed all those years before, and all Onodera can do is gasp and cling to Takano to brace himself steady against the tide of fever-heat that rises to flush his cheeks and tremble against his legs.

Takano knows what he’s doing. His fingers fit around Onodera with unflinching certainty, as if he is as sure of the other’s preferences as Onodera is himself; as he is, although Onodera will never part his lips on the capitulation of that confession. It hardly needs words anyway; it must be clear from the way Onodera’s hips jerk to meet Takano’s hold, the way his lips break from Takano’s only to give voice to the moan of heat that is drawn up from his chest by the stroke of the other’s grip. Takano turns his head to press his mouth to Onodera’s neck, urging a kiss close against the curve of the other’s throat, and Onodera turns his head to gaze out at the snow falling on the far side of the foggy window and feels his heart racing in his chest in answer to Takano’s hold on him.

It takes him very little time. Onodera would like to hold out longer, as a matter of pride as much as of pleasure; but Takano’s fingers carry a heat with them that sinks into the base of his spine on contact, that surges to heights too sudden for Onodera to fight back against. He clutches at Takano’s hair to brace himself, tips his knee bruise-hard against the side of the car to try to ground himself against the persuasion of Takano’s grip, but the details of his physical existence give way like they belong to someone else, until everything he is fits beneath the weight of Takano’s body and the hold of his fingers. Takano strokes over him, his knee bracing between Onodera’s thighs and his breath steam-hot at Onodera’s neck, and when his fingers tighten Onodera can do nothing but surrender. His lashes shut, his lips part, and when he comes it’s with a whimper in his throat that thrums against Takano’s mouth against his skin.

Takano sighs against Onodera’s neck, the sound of his exhale so warm that Onodera shudders just from the feel of it. “Onodera,” he murmurs, as if he’s savoring the taste of the other’s name, and when he draws back his eyes are so dark that Onodera’s already hot cheeks flush redder just from the way Takano looks at him. He does look, for a moment, gazing down as if he’s the one trying to reclaim a lost memory, before he shifts back over his knee at the seat so he can reach behind him and pull open the glove box. Onodera stays where he is, his breath fluttering in his chest and cheeks burning with heat that seems only to have been heightened rather than eased by his orgasm, and when Takano come back to brace a hand at the seat over his shoulder so he can lean over him while he reaches slick-wet fingers into the tangle of Onodera’s pants, Onodera lifts his hand to clutch at the back of Takano’s neck and shuts his eyes in willing surrender to the demand of the other’s fingers against him.

Takano is certain in his touch. Onodera remembers hesitation from those hazy memories that seem to have printed themselves more in his body than in the clarity of his mind; but ten years have given him more experience to go along with the confidence he has always had, and when his fingers press to Onodera now it’s with the grace of expectation behind his touch. For a moment Onodera’s thoughts drift towards jealousy: who did Takano gain this experience from? Was it Yokozawa who gave this grace to his touch, this confidence to his movement? It’s too clear a possibility, for a moment, enough to burn the heat of misery behind Onodera’s eyes; but then Takano speaks, the low weight of his voice cutting past the roar of unhappiness rising in Onodera’s ears.

“Onodera.” Onodera blinks, brought back to the present by the demand on Takano’s voice; Takano is looking down at him, his mouth set and his eyes dark with intent. Onodera’s cheeks flush, his body tensing with familiar self-consciousness beneath the weight of that gaze, but there’s nowhere for him to run to, and his body is too trembling-hot to move even if there were. Takano holds his attention, frowning more with intensity than anger as he watches the other’s face. “Don’t forget who you’re with.”

Onodera’s mouth tightens, self-consciousness retreating from the heat of irritation. “Don’t be stupid, Takano-san,” he snaps. “I’m not going to _forget_.”

“You did before,” Takano says, his tone level and his words inexorable. Onodera shuts his mouth tight, pressing his lips hard together; Takano’s mouth softens, curving up at the corner towards the give of a smile. “I’m going to make sure you won’t, this time.” He leans down over Onodera, his fingers tightening at the seat to hold himself still as he comes in. Onodera wants to keep his mouth tight, to hold onto the flare of frustration that gave him some traction, however brief; but Takano’s fingers slide up into him as the other’s lips find his, and he loses the strength at his mouth to a startled moan that Takano catches against his tongue. Takano turns his head to angle deeper and match the slide of his tongue to the stroke of his fingers, and Onodera’s hands come up into his hair to reach for stability as he gives himself up for the other’s keeping.

He’s trembling again by the time Takano slides his fingers free so he can work his hand back out of Onodera’s clothes. Onodera feels he ought to be exhausted, that the tension of arousal in him should be thoroughly spent by the urging of Takano’s grip over him; but it seems to form itself to the other’s fingertips, as if the strain in his body is being pulled taut just by the glancing contact of Takano’s hand. His clothes catch around his hips as Takano pulls against them, the elastic of his underwear tangling itself over the resistance of his cock standing out hard from his hips again. Takano urges Onodera’s clothes down by a span of inches while Onodera reaches to brace a hand at the side of the car so he can lift his hips enough to help, but Takano only bothers with dragging the weight of the other’s pants down to his thighs rather than trying to get them free entirely. Takano pushes up under Onodera’s knee to urge the other’s legs higher and Onodera moves in obedience to draw his thighs up close against his chest. It’s an awkward angle, with his legs caught in his clothes and his body pinned to the incline of the seat beneath him, but Takano is opening the fly of his own pants and Onodera doesn’t voice protest. He’s overheated, his face flushed and heart pounding and so slick with sweat he can feel it sliding down his back and damp at his forehead; and he feels raw with desperation, as if his ragged breathing stems from a lack of fulfillment instead of an excess of it. They ought to wait, they should have stopped long before, they could still pause now; and Onodera can imagine nothing worse than Takano stopping them here.

Takano doesn’t. His fingers are quick with the front of his pants; Onodera can hear the sound of the other’s belt buckle opening and the click of his zipper coming down even without having an angle to see the motion. Takano ducks his head to watch what he’s doing, pressing hard to his hand over Onodera’s shoulder as he works himself free of his clothes, and then he’s rocking forward, his body canting in to cast a shadow that Onodera feels like velvet dragging across his heat-flushed skin. There is friction against him, a force urging against Onodera’s body that he can’t help but tighten against with some distant instinct; and then Takano lifts his head, and his eyes meet Onodera’s. They look at each other for a moment, Onodera flushed and breathless and Takano intent and certain; then Takano moves, his cock urges forward, and Onodera’s lashes flutter to haze his vision as his throat works over a moan at the feel of Takano coming into him.

It ought to be uncomfortable. Onodera’s knees are pinned close to his chest, held together by the burden of his clothes and forced up and back by Takano leaning over him; the car is cramped with heat, the air thick and humid from the pant of their breathing against it. But Takano is leaning over him, his head ducked close enough for his hair to skim against the sweat-damp of Onodera’s, and every time his hips move his cock thrusts heat deeper into Onodera’s body. Onodera’s hands are in Takano’s hair, clutching against the weight of it without any thought for restraint or composure; his eyes are shut, his breathing gasping in his chest in time with Takano working into him. He can’t catch his breath, can’t soften the rasp of his inhales or the moaning heat of his exhales, and even with his thighs cramping and his back aching he can hardly stand the pleasure of it. Takano is over him, his breathing hot at Onodera’s ear and his fingers pressing bruises into Onodera’s hip to hold him still, and Onodera remembers the spill of moonlight through an open window and the lean line of these same shoulders tipping in to frame his own. His fingers flex, holding tighter before easing to stroke through Takano’s hair, and when he presses his lips tight it’s to fight back the _senpai_ at his tongue to knot like tears in the shift of his throat.

Takano is quiet against him, perfectly silent except for the rustle of their clothes tangling together and the pant of his breathing; but Onodera’s heart is pounding loud enough to make up for the peace, thudding in his chest until he has to strain for air, until he feels like he’s going dizzy from his fight for breath. His whole body is slick with heat: his clothes are damp against his skin but he can feel it inside him, too, as if his blood is turning to steam to melt all his strength into trembling want. His legs are shaking, quivering along with his breathing; his hands in Takano’s hair are more to hold himself steady, now, than to urge any kind of restraint from the other. Onodera’s lashes are heavy, damp with tears he doesn’t remember crying; they feel like the heat in him given form, as if the whole tangle of long-held bitterness in his chest is dissolving to spill across his cheeks and hiccup free of his throat. The snow is drifting against the edge of the car window, melting against the warmth of the heat-fogged glass; Takano’s hand at the chair shifts, his hold giving way so he can lower himself onto his elbow. Onodera feels the weight of fingers against his hair, playing through the locks before steadying to a hold as familiar as the heat of Takano’s body and the shadow of his gaze.

“Ritsu,” Takano says, speaking softly but with his voice perfectly clear against the snow-smoothed peace. “I love you.”

Onodera’s fingers tighten to fists in Takano’s hair. For a moment his breath chokes him, knotting to a sob in his throat; when he finally breaks free all he can manage is “Takano-san,” the sound shattered on desperation. It’s not a confession, not even a plea; but Takano’s hand at his hair tightens, Takano’s shoulders curve in over him, and Onodera shuts his eyes and lets the rush of Takano’s pleasure draw him over the edge into his own.

They are still after. Takano remains pressing close to Onodera beneath him; he’s heavy against Onodera’s sweat-slick body, but Onodera doesn’t ease his hold even as the haze of pleasure starts to fade into the ache of sated desire. Takano’s head stays at his shoulder, his hair still tangled with Onodera’s, but he doesn’t speak, just breathes at Onodera’s skin as if he intends to never leave. Onodera gazes out the window alongside them, watching snowflakes catch and stick before melting to trickle like rain across the glass, until finally he can trust his voice to hold without cracking over what he needs to say. “Takano-san?”

Takano turns his head fractionally at Onodera’s shoulder. “Mm?”

Onodera draws a breath, filling his lungs with heat to steady himself. “Happy birthday.”

Takano’s hand shifts, his fingers tightening against Onodera’s hip; then his grip eases, his palm sliding up across the line of the other’s waist. His thumb trails Onodera’s skin, marking out the curve of his lowest rib. Onodera can feel the line of Takano’s touch hot even against the fever-ache of his body.

“Yes,” Takano says. “It is.” He lifts his head, raising his chin to touch his mouth to the space under Onodera’s ear, and Onodera shuts his eyes and lets himself relax into the present.


	3. Delicate

Onodera’s heart won’t stop racing.

It began in the hallway outside Takano’s apartment, when his voice broke high with desperation to be granted entrance into the space that he has rejected on so many previous occasions, that feels like a haven to him now. His breath came fast, anxious with need to explain himself, to excuse something he can hardly even frame in his own mind, until Takano opened the door and all Onodera’s words tumbled out of his head at once. His hand moved on its own accord to halt the motion of the door closing, his feet bore him forward of their own volition, as if Takano is magnetized in some way Onodera can’t resist, as if his very existence is drawing Onodera towards him in spite of all the reasons it shouldn’t. Takano’s averted face, his cool voice, his flat declaration of his intent; it was all too much, a flood enough to crack and shatter the dam of rationality in Onodera’s mind. His hand had come out, had seized to a hold at Takano’s sleeve so strengthless it seemed to melt to a caress as quickly as he gave it, until the weight of his head was too much and all he could manage to do was duck forward and rest the burn of his miserable flush to the cool back of Takano’s jacket. He couldn’t let Takano leave, couldn’t give up this thing he knew he shouldn’t have; and when Takano turned at last to give Onodera the full attention of his gold eyes, to close his fingers to a bracing hold around Onodera’s wrist and urge him back against the door as if to serve as a physical barrier against his departure, Onodera could do nothing but shut his eyes and lift his chin to give the part of his lips for Takano’s having.

He doesn’t remember coming out of the entryway into the rest of the apartment. They move, he knows, his feet stumbling over the need to shed his shoes and the uncertain forward motion into which he is guided while Takano is steady,  drawing Onodera inexorably in his wake as he backs into the shadows of his apartment without even lifting his head to watch where they are going. Onodera’s fingers are caught in Takano’s own, their grip interlaced so near he is sure Takano can feel the heat in his veins, is sure Takano can sense the pounding of his heart fluttering in his throat, but even that thought isn’t enough to loosen his desperate grip on Takano’s hand in his. It’s too much what he has craved, too much of a relief for some nameless, aching pain he has carried with him for the last decade of his bitter life, until even when Takano pulls to catch Onodera in his arms Onodera can only give way, casting himself into the support of the other’s hold as they fall together to the soft of Takano’s bed.

Onodera doesn’t remember this. He’s been here before, somewhere in that night lost to the blur of intoxication in his mind; but all he recalls is the morning after, his vision blurry and his body aching as he pushed to sit up from the tangle of rumpled sheets. Takano may recall the feel of this, of their bodies close together atop the give of his bed; but Onodera’s heart is pounding as if he’s back in high school, as if he is once again fulfilling a dream carried for far more than the three years that seemed like such an eternity to him then. The sheets are soft beneath him, they catch at the weight of his own coat and tangle beneath the press of Takano’s knees, but Onodera can’t lift his hands to smooth them when he can’t free the grip of his fingers from the weight of Takano’s hair beneath his hold. He has a hand against the back of the other’s head, the other clutching at the back collar of the jacket Takano is still wearing; the reminder of how nearly Onodera missed him, of how close he came to losing him, is enough to flex his grip to helpless force, as if to overwrite the averted possibility with some proof of present reality.

“Onodera,” Takano says, speaking in that tone that always runs a shudder down Onodera’s spine, as if he’s coming alive just for the sound of the other’s voice. Takano turns in against him, dipping his head as if to press a kiss to the side of Onodera’s neck, but he just breathes against the other’s skin, as if the proximity itself is close enough to satisfy him. One knee is braced on the far side of Onodera’s hip; the other draws up, weighting to the mattress between Onodera’s angled-open legs. Onodera feels the vulnerability of it, as if he’s being laid bare even with the full weight of his clothes still covering his body, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on Takano over him, and when Takano lifts a hand to press Onodera’s shirt against his stomach Onodera’s breath rushes from him in an exhale closer to a groan than a protest. His spine curves, arching to make a plea of the shape of his body, and Takano pushes his fingers down at once, turning his hand to urge across Onodera’s stomach and down. Even through the weight of his shirt Onodera can feel the heat of Takano’s touch sliding over his body; it’s like sunlight, warmth enough to illuminate all his body to a flush that seems to steal his strength with it, that leaves him trembling and helpless to whatever Takano wishes to do to him.

Takano is efficient. Onodera is bundled against the chill of the air outside, with layers of clothing between the heat of his body and the press of Takano’s, but Takano’s fingers find the front of his pants with no difficulty, and the button at the front gives way almost as quickly as Takano’s thumb sets to the edge of it. Onodera hisses a breath as his clothes come open and Takano’s fingers slide down within the weight of the fabric, but his hips are lifting to meet the other, his body responding even as his thoughts stammer and falter under the distraction of Takano’s touch. Takano lifts his head from Onodera’s neck, rising up over him by no more than an inch so his breathing is coming hot with Onodera’s, and when his fingers curl to a grip around the other’s length all Onodera can do is shut his eyes and tremble with the pleasure of it.

Onodera can feel his body coming alight, rising to a clarity he thought abandoned behind him in the long-ago years of his youth. He can feel the weight of his clothes heavy against his skin, pressing near to hold the heat of his blood glowing like steam against his body; the friction from his breathing is almost more than he can bear, for how achingly sensitive his body is. To have Takano’s fingers against him, pressing skin-to-skin as the other’s hold steadies against the flushed heat of Onodera’s cock and pulls up over him: Onodera has no speech at all to offer in answer. All he can manage is to clutch at Takano’s hair, speaking with the tension of his grip while his throat works on soundless heat, on moans that go unvoiced for the pressure of excess knotting in his chest. It’s too much, he can’t bear it, the tension and the heat and the want must surely sweep over his head and drown him; but when Onodera opens his eyes Takano is looking at him, leaning close to pin Onodera down with the dark of his shadow and with the focus of his eyes gone so melting-soft Onodera can hardly believe they can hold the harsh judgment Takano shows in the office. There’s no judgment there now, no temper and no frustration: just affection, a warmth so obvious and overwhelming that Onodera can’t bear to face it. He has to turn his head away, has to shut his eyes against the weight of Takano’s gaze; but he feels it still, lingering at his skin and drawing through his hair with as much weight as a touch, until his heart is racing in his chest and his breathing is catching to strain in his throat.

Onodera can’t last. Takano’s grip is too steady, the rhythm of his stroke too certain; and the awareness of who he’s with, the trembling self-consciousness of Takano over him, of Takano touching him, of Takano’s breathing rasping hot with want against his hair is more than Onodera knows how to bear. His thoughts are fraying, his focus melting free from him with every breath he takes, until when Takano tightens his grip and urges his thumb to press up over the head of Onodera’s cock all Onodera can give by way of response is a jolt of his hips and a whimper in his throat that turns to heat without his intention. He would call it back if he could, if he had thought to close his mouth on the sound, but Takano is leaning in closer, his shoulders curving in over Onodera as if to hold the other still against the motion of his hand, and when he speaks the sound of the words is raw on heat, as if it’s his cock in Onodera’s grip and not the other way around.

“Onodera,” he says, rasping such weight to the syllables that Onodera’s face flushes to crimson on the hearing of it. “You’re close.” It’s not a question and it would do no good to deny it if it were; Onodera can hear his own breathing straining with each inhale, now, his legs are trembling with irresistible force where he’s sprawled beneath Takano. Takano leans in; his mouth touches Onodera’s ear, his lips shape a kiss against the side of the other’s neck. “Show me.”

Onodera can’t resist. His face is hot, every breath tastes like a confession on his lips and his fingers are struggling for strength, his nails scraping to dig in against the back of Takano’s neck to steady himself, but Takano’s hand is moving with no consideration for any of his shuddering want, or maybe with far more consideration than what Onodera would give it. Heat is a tide in him, swelling higher and harder with every breath no matter how much he might struggle to push it down, and when Takano’s thumb works up and over him again Onodera’s body jolts with the sensation. His breathing is sticking, rising to the outline of a sob in spite of himself, his lashes are weighting to dip down over his eyes; and Takano’s grip pulls up over him, and Onodera’s head tips back to strain his exhale to a moan as his lashes flutter over his heat-blurred vision. His thighs shudder, his balls tighten, and he comes at once, spilling heat over Takano’s fingers around him as the other goes on stroking him through his orgasm. Pleasure washes out into Onodera, easing the strain in his chest and quivering shocks of heat out through his legs and along the length of his arms, and Onodera clutches at Takano to brace himself as he sobs through the force of sensation spilling through him.

He’s dazed when Takano lets him go, his thoughts scattered and cheeks flushed high and bright as if with fever. Onodera feels himself glowing, as if all his body has become sun-radiant with the friction of Takano’s fingers against him; but his heart is still pounding in his chest, his breathing still held taut when he draws an inhale to fill his lungs. His hands are trembling, he finds, his grip on Takano’s coat and the back of his neck desperate instead of insistent, but when Takano draws up over him and lifts his hand from Onodera’s pants to reach for the front of his own Onodera surprises himself with the speed of his motion in clutching at Takano’s wrist to stall his action.

“No,” he blurts. Takano goes still, his eyes dark and fixed on Onodera’s face; Onodera meets the other’s gaze as directly as he can, even as he feels his cheeks burn with self-consciousness. He sets his jaw, fixing himself to determination before he lets his grip on Takano’s wrist go so he can reach out for the other’s pants instead. “I’ll do it.”

Onodera is half-expecting Takano to offer some quip in response to this, or even just to let his mouth quirk up onto that smirk that Onodera always feels with such a keen edge. But Takano says nothing, offers nothing of the amusement Onodera is expecting; he just lets his hand fall from what he was doing, bracing his fingers against the bed alongside Onodera’s hip as Onodera fumbles to open the front of the other’s pants. Takano is watching him, gazing down at him with that focus heavy behind the dark of his lashes; Onodera can feel himself going hotter just for the awareness of that attention, can feel his pulse racing faster with no more persuasion than what Takano’s steady stare can muster. He has to keep his head ducked down to watch what he’s doing to get the fly of the other’s pants open, has to keep his lips pressed tight together to keep the sound of his breathing from rasping too-loud on heat in his throat, but Takano doesn’t comment on that either, doesn’t speak even as Onodera gets the front of his pants open so he can fit his hand in and under the fabric. He just stays still, holding himself up over Onodera flushed and shaky beneath him until the other has his clothes free and is reaching in past the barrier of the waistband. Onodera’s fingers touch flushed skin, his palm presses close against the shape of Takano’s cock against his hand, and over him Takano ducks his head, his hair falling to shadow his face as he breathes an exhale that shapes itself to a groan of relief as it breaks free from his chest.

Takano is hot in Onodera’s grip. Onodera has felt him before, has wrapped his fingers to a hold just like this around the proof of the other’s desire; but repetition does nothing to ease the adrenaline that courses through him in answer to the unbearable self-consciousness of touching Takano, of pressing his fingers close against skin flushed to breathless sensitivity. Takano must feel every shift of his wrist, must feel the clinging traction of every fingerprint sliding against him, and even with his own pleasure spent sticky over the grip of Takano’s hand Onodera’s face holds to heat, his heart pounds with unmitigated arousal for the feel of Takano against him, for the fit of his fingers against the other’s length. Takano is breathing hard, his hips trembling through tiny motions to work against Onodera’s grip, and Onodera keeps his hold as steady as he can. Takano is hot with want, his cock flushed dark and so radiant he seems to be burning with it, but his skin is delicate, almost silky against Onodera’s hand with each stroke the other takes. Onodera is almost afraid of hurting him, of pulling too hard or squeezing too tight, but the rasp of Takano’s inhales speaks to pleasure instead of pain, and when he lifts his hand from the sheets it is only to touch his fingers to Onodera’s hip, gently as if to ground himself against the heat of the other’s skin.

Onodera gazes up, watching shadows play across Takano’s face as his attention clings to the part of want at the other’s lips, and so he sees the tension forming against Takano’s jaw, sees the strain of pressure starting in the tendons of the other’s neck. Takano’s hand slides at his hip, seeking traction against bare skin as his fingers tighten to press to Onodera’s body, to hold them steady in alignment with each other, and then he exhales hard, the breath falling to the shape of “ _Ritsu_ ” as it spills past his lips, and Onodera’s whole body flushes to heat as Takano’s hips jolt forward and the other comes over his hold. He stares up at Takano, his face aflame with self-consciousness, but Takano keeps his head tipped down so all Onodera can see of him is the soft of his mouth as he gasps through the waves of his own satisfaction. Onodera keeps holding to him, his hand closed around Takano’s length as the other rides out his orgasm, until Takano is left braced over him, his shoulders shaking and his breathing rasping. They are still for a moment like that, Takano leaning in and Onodera staring up; and then Takano’s elbow bends, his head comes down, and Onodera finds himself caught in the loop of the other’s arm fitting around his waist to bring the shape of their bodies close together.

“Onodera,” Takano says. His voice is lower even than usual, slow and warm with pleasure. His free hand touches against Onodera’s hair, his fingers fitting to stroke through the locks with impossible care. When he speaks Onodera can feel the heat of it against the side of his neck, fitting into the space between his clothes and his body. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing these past ten years. So tell me everything.” Takano’s mouth finds Onodera’s skin; a kiss presses to Onodera’s neck, the shape of Takano’s mouth printing itself in place as he tips to the side to lie at the mattress alongside Onodera and draw the other in against the curve of his body. “I don’t want anything left out. I want to know everything about you.”

Onodera blinks hard. He’s grateful for the curve of Takano’s body behind instead of over him; it saves him from an audience for the damp at his lashes that answers the gentleness of that those hands at him, the tenderness of that touch sliding through his hair. There is no trace of sarcasm in Takano’s voice, none of the mockery that he is so quick to offer in the familiarity of the workplace; his hold is careful, his touch as delicate as if Onodera is some precious treasure. Onodera’s heart aches, sharp with pain in his chest, and when he shuts his eyes he presses his lips together too, holding back the confession in his throat, the admission that is writing itself into his body with every thud of his too-fast heartbeat. He can’t slow his pulse any more than anyone else can bring it to these heights; this has always been Takano’s alone, this ability to make Onodera’s heart race with a speed to leave all his rationality behind. But Onodera can’t say it, can’t let the words free from his lips without them breaking over a sob; so he keeps his mouth shut, and keeps the words silent, and if Takano feels how fast Onodera’s heart is beating within the curve of his arm, he says no more than Onodera does.


	4. Implicit

Onodera can hear the sound of his heart racing.

It’s been there since they came through the door of Takano’s apartment, since they abandoned their wet shoes in the entryway and made their dripping way down the hallway to the soft of the bed. Takano drew them into the shadows of his room without hesitation, without so much as pausing over the wet soaked into their clothes and the damp of their hair, and Onodera could muster no more than a token protest before the press of Takano’s lips and the urging of his hands pressed aside all less essential concerns. Onodera knows how Takano’s touch affects him -- still, even now, however many years have passed -- and he can’t find it in him to resist something when he wants it so much. The protests of his mind have given way, the shrill voice of bitterness has at last fallen silent, and in the quiet all Onodera can hear is the rhythm of his heart beating so hard he feels sure the sound must be echoing off the inside of Takano’s apartment walls.

It’s not as if this is the first time he has been here. It’s not even the first time he has been like this, with his clothes stripped from his body and dropped to a tangled heap at the floor along with Takano’s. Takano’s hands are warm at his rain-chilled skin, Takano’s lips are gentle at his forehead, his cheek, the line of his shoulder; but Onodera can’t remember his heart racing like this before, can’t remember feeling like this since he was a high schooler with his senpai’s fingers marking the untouched expanse of his body with their certain touch. Onodera feels fever-hot, as if this might all be a dream, a memory given new life by the haze of delirium; but his vision is clear, and his heartbeat is sure, and it’s not a boy’s shadow falling over him now but a man’s, shoulders spanning greater breadth than what youth allowed and face showing the lines of the time that has passed since that first breathless experience that so overthrew Onodera’s world that it has left him stumbling in low-gravity ever since.

“Onodera,” Takano says, his voice as gentle as it has been since he clasped his hand around Onodera’s and disintegrated the last of the other’s resistance with a single motion. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze dark on Onodera’s face, but his mouth is soft, tender as much in his speaking as in the kisses he has been pressing to Onodera’s bare skin beneath him. Onodera knows what’s coming, knows what words Takano is about to shape for his hearing; but all he can do is stare up at the other, his eyes wide with anticipation strained tight on a hope so uncertain he can’t trust it even now, even after everything. Takano looks down at him, his gaze tracking the details of Onodera’s face before him as if lingering in an indulgence before he shudders a sigh of audible pleasure and speaks. “I love you.”

Onodera can’t answer. His mouth is open, his lips are parted; but his throat is still, the words he knows to be truth remain locked in the span of his chest where he can’t find voice for them. He ought to reply, even just to offer the simplicity of a  _ me too _ to give his confession shape via the echo of Takano’s; but he is as speechless as if his voice has been stolen from him outright, and all he can do is gaze up at Takano with his cheeks flushed and his heart pounding in his chest. He has nothing to give but silence, no reply he can offer but his acceptance of Takano’s own statement; but Takano smiles as if Onodera has overflowed with the words of his youthful adoration all over again, and when he leans in it is to fill the gap of silence at Onodera’s parted lips with the certain heat of his own.

Onodera shuts his eyes, surrendering to the friction of Takano’s lips, of Takano’s tongue sliding in to taste and press to his own, and when Takano’s hand touches at his hip Onodera lifts a hand to touch trembling fingers to Takano’s shoulder in turn. Takano’s fingers brace him steady, Onodera’s grip flexes to cling for support against the force to come, and when Takano moves Onodera feels the force of the other entering him like it’s easing some impossible tension he has carried so long he forgot it was there. Onodera gives way, trembling with the loosening of that deep-down knot in him, and Takano comes forward to bring them together while his lips press to catch whatever unthinking heat might spill from Onodera’s throat.

Takano is gentle with him. His movement is careful, slow to allow Onodera space to ease to the pressure, to adjust to the feel of Takano moving into him, of their bodies joined together in a single space; but there is no hesitation, none of the quivering tension that is fluttering Onodera’s fingers against Takano’s shoulder and holding his words to such captivity in his throat. Takano isn’t demanding, isn’t forcing his way forward for his own satisfaction; but his persuasion is inexorable, his self-assurance as solid as the heat of his arousal pressing within Onodera’s body. There is no uncertainty in the movement of his hips or the press of his hand, nothing more or less than the absolute conviction of the confession he offers in answer to Onodera’s doubts; and even years of dug-in resistance can’t protest the sincerity so clear in every flex of Takano’s body, in every murmur of his voice. Onodera can only hold to him, clutching at the other’s shoulder like it’s a lifeline as the heat of Takano’s mouth fills his own as if to melt away the ice that has frozen over the confession that once spilled so easily from his lips.

The room is very quiet. On the far side of the apartment window there is still the sound of rain, the downpour that stole Onodera’s brief moment of courage from him softened to the patter of droplets trickling down the glass to haze away the clarity of the rest of the world, to leave just the two of them together in a space formed of half-forgotten memories and ever-present heat. Onodera’s fingers are braced at Takano’s shoulder, his grip clinging to the other as if afraid to let him go, as if he might lose himself if he lacks a fixed point to brace against; but Takano is holding him too, his hold at Onodera’s hip keeping the other steady even against the forward motion of his hips, and Onodera feels himself glowing with pressure, with pleasure more than what he can bear in himself. He would have pulled away, he thinks, would have flinched back and retreated on the demand of a doubt too well-learned for him to give it up for trust now; but Takano’s hold is unflinching, and when Takano draws back to free Onodera’s mouth it is only so he can draw a breath of his own and speak in tones made low and dark by the friction of their bodies coming together.

“I love you,” he says, his gaze certain on Onodera’s face, and Onodera’s throat tightens, clenching with the threat of tears already burning at his eyes and threatening to spill over his lashes. “Onodera.” Takano lifts his hand from where he has been cradling Onodera’s head, draws his fingers down to urge through Onodera’s hair, and Onodera’s lashes fall, drawn over his gaze by too much weight for him to resist. He can feel the wet of tears collecting against them, can feel the pressure of a sob starting in his throat, but Takano’s fingers stay against his hair, feathering through the strands like he’s savoring the contact, like he’s lingering in the satisfaction of feeling Onodera beneath him. There is affection in his touch, too, as clear in the gentle slide of his fingers as it is in the sound of his voice and the motion of his body, and Onodera drags a breath past the pressure of his throat and reaches up to clutch around Takano’s shoulders with his free hand as well.

“Senpai,” he sobs, the word breaking free from him like a surrender, and over him Takano sighs a breath and presses his hand close to the top of Onodera’s head.

“Ritsu,” he breathes, and then his lips are against Onodera’s mouth and Onodera is lifting his chin to tip up for the contact, is curling his fingers closer into Takano’s hair under his hold. His knees relax, his thighs easing to make greater space for Takano between them, and Takano strokes forward to fill him breathlessly full. Onodera’s mouth opens, a gasp breaking free from his throat, but Takano’s lips are there to catch it to no more than a murmur of pleasure. Takano kisses him thoroughly, pressing his presence to every part of Onodera’s mouth as much as his hands have mapped the shape of the other’s body, and when he draws back it is only to touch his lips to the other’s cheek, where Onodera’s tears have overflowed his lashes to slide back into the rain-wet of his hair. Onodera keeps his eyes shut, feeling Takano’s lips mark his cheek, his temple, the very corner of his eye; and then Takano thrusts deeply, and Onodera moans wordless heat and clings the harder to Takano’s shoulders. Takano’s hand at his hip slides higher to grip against his waist and fix him steady, and when Takano begins to move with force Onodera tips his head to rest against Takano’s and lets himself give way to the incoherent notes of helpless heat that rise in him in answer to Takano’s movement within him.

Onodera’s orgasm catches him off-guard. He has given himself over to Takano’s hold, to Takano’s rhythm, has offered up even the pounding of his heart in his chest to the adrenaline-sped rush of the heat coursing through him; it is Takano filling him with shuddering waves of sensation, Takano who has made of him a resonance to thrum answering heat to each motion of the other’s body over and in him. Onodera has given over his attention to anything else, has let even the drag of his breathing rasping in his throat be drawn away from his control by the persuasion of Takano against him, until the rising tension along his spine seems like it must belong to someone else, as if it might be Takano’s arousal he’s feeling more clearly than anything from the physical reality of his own self. Takano’s hips move and Onodera’s thighs tense, Takano draws an inhale and it’s Onodera who spills it to a moan, until finally Takano’s shoulders tighten under Onodera’s hold, and his thighs work to thrust him forward, and Onodera finds himself arching against the sheets beneath him, his spine curving to bow him to an arc of tension too much for him to possibly bear. His lips are parted but he’s not drawing breath, his eyes are open but he’s seeing nothing, and then Takano speaks: “Ritsu,” warm and wondering, and Onodera cries out and comes as if at a command. His knees tighten at Takano’s hips, his head tips forward to press to Takano’s shoulder, and Onodera sobs through the force of orgasm rippling along his spine and spilling heat across his stomach. It’s too much, he can’t bear it, can’t hold himself together against the crush of sensation dragging him free of himself; but there are arms around him, a hand at his waist and fingers in his hair, and when Takano’s lips press to his cheek Onodera curves into surrender so instinctive he can’t think to resist it.

“Ritsu,” Takano says again, breathing the sound of Onodera’s name like he’s savoring the taste of it against his tongue, as if he’s as satisfied by Onodera’s pleasure as he would be by his own. “I love you.” Onodera’s throat knots, his eyes burn, and all he can offer in answer is the press of his head to Takano’s shoulder and the grip of his arms to hold him close to the other as Takano steadies himself so he can resume a steady rhythm to bring himself to his own release. Takano feels heavier with the strain of Onodera’s arousal spent, as if his body has gained in strength and size in proportion to the exhaustion in Onodera’s; it makes Onodera feel steadied, to be so fixed beneath the other’s weight. Takano is leaning over him, is working deep into the heat of his body with smooth, steady strokes, and Onodera clings to Takano’s shoulders, and tips his head to the side so he can let the tears of too-much gratitude trickle to dampen Takano’s hair instead of his own.

Takano’s orgasm is like a wave breaking, as if the heat of the other’s pleasure is sweeping up to submerge and encompass the whole of Onodera fitting beneath him. Onodera hears it in the catch of Takano’s breathing against his ear; he feels it work in the muscle under his arms, in the stutter of the rhythm Takano sets as he moves into him. Onodera’s inhale sticks in his throat, drawn tight on anticipation as keen as what he felt in himself, and when Takano shudders a sigh and lets his strain go into the ease of release Onodera’s body flushes hot with the awareness of Takano’s pleasure within him. Takano slides his hand around Onodera’s waist to wrap his arm into the dip of the other’s back, pulling them close together as he relaxes to lie heavy across the bed, and Onodera’s fingers tighten against Takano’s shoulders as if to hold them closer just on what friction his fingerprints can find against the other’s bare skin.

They lie still there, with the sound of the rain backdrop for the pant of their breathing filling the room to humid warmth. Onodera’s throat eases from the clench of painful affection that held him for so many minutes; he lets the knot go with a shudder that runs down the whole length of his spine and leaves him heavy in Takano’s arms. Takano just shifts his arm tighter to pin Onodera closer to him, and Onodera lets himself be urged until his chest is pressing flush against Takano’s own. His fingers are tense against Takano’s shoulders; after a moment he can fix himself to lift one hand enough to rest his fingers against the damp weight of the other’s hair. Takano answers by nuzzling closer to Onodera’s neck, urging nearer until his lips are touching the line of Onodera’s shoulder, and Onodera tightens his hold to work his fingers in to greater force, until he thinks he is as much holding Takano to himself as Takano is pressing back. He can feel his heart beating, thudding hard against the inside of his ribcage; but Takano’s is too, Onodera can feel the rhythm of the other’s pulse matching to his own where they are lying. Onodera lies across Takano’s bed, his fingers wound into Takano’s hair as he gazes up at the ceiling and feels their hearts beating together; and then he tips his head in to rest his cheek at Takano’s hair, and shuts his eyes to the spreading quiet of the room around them.

Someday he’ll find words for the ache in his chest, for the love that he holds as tightly in his chest as Takano is holding to him now; but for now, in this moment, the rhythm of his heartbeat will speak better than he can manage aloud.


End file.
